Rule 1
by Firecarryer
Summary: What was it about companions and always forgetting that first, so important rule? Contains spoilers for the end of Series Nine. One-shot.


**So having just watched the last two episodes of Series Nine and reading about people ranting about how terrible it was, and how Clara was an awful character, I got a little annoyed. I personally liked the character development, and I enjoyed seeing the Doctor travel with an equal and best friend that would call him an idiot. Nine got Jack, Ten had Donna, and Twelve had Clara. That's my opinion, and not everyone has to agree with it. I accept and respect that. This is not an attack on those who don't like her character. This is just my view on the end of Series Nine, and in particular how the Doctor acted during the whole episode.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.**

The Doctor stepped out of the pick up truck, grateful that someone had been thoughtful enough to provide him with transportation. It would have been rather unfortunate if he'd had to walk after everything that had happened. He was still recovering from the effect of the memory wipe after all, and he wasn't getting any younger.

Sunglasses on, in his normal suit minus the cape, and bearing his guitar on his back, the Doctor looked over the diner with a carefully practiced neutral expression. He knew this diner. He wondered if it had plucked the idea from his mind, just to entice him. It was completely possible after all.

He was a touch insulted as he stepped in, and was greeted by Clara in a waitress outfit, that neither Clara nor Me thought that the Doctor would recognize a Tardis. Forgetting that he was Time Lord, and could see the universe as it was and see the timelines, how could he miss the thrum, the call of such a beautiful mind and powerful being? How could he miss the allure, the siren call of the doors that offered to open the whole universe to you?

But he didn't react. He talked to Clara, his Clara, like he didn't know her. Like when those eyes met his and searched for recognition, it didn't hurt. Like when she asked him what his piece was called, what the mourning melody he played and what sadness it carried, he missed her flinching when he called it Clara. He wouldn't show it. He couldn't.

The Doctor had been serious when he told Clara it had to end. They had to part. She was too much of his world, and he was selfish. His beautiful mayfly, with him for never long enough. The Impossible Girl, who should have died hundreds of times over. The girl in front of him, still without a pulse, much as she tried to hide it with the deathly cold touch of her hand as she poured him a drink. Clara

The Doctor loved them, all his companions and Clara was no exception. They were his world, his morality and his reason to keep moving. In his more bitter days he called Clara his carer, who cared so he didn't have to. But on normal days, that was said with passion, with relief. On his good days, it was honest; she cared so he could too. Because that attachment, him caring about all he ran into, about people like Clara and Ashildr, about Kate and Osgood and all the others, that was a strength. It let him be the hero they all thought he was, be the man who fought the good fight and saved the day. It made him the Doctor.

But like any good sword, it cut both ways. Because he was forever. He was the Doctor, a Time Lord and while he could die, and eventually would, it was at a much later date than all those around him. Me hadn't known it, but as those stars went out another set of eyes watched. She hadn't made that bubble that kept her safe and warm to watch the stars fade. That had been a gift, and another sat and watched her with a sad smile.

His companions were not so lucky. They fade and change and die. And he lost them. And it hurt, it cut him anew until he was that lost little boy again just fleeing from the nightmare that he would destroy Gallifrey. That him was desperate and powerful, and he would tear the universe apart to keep his companions safe. And the more times he succeeded, the more times he won, the more times he managed to hold onto those he loved one more time, made losing them hurt all the more. And he'd saved Clara so many times, been lucky so many times. It couldn't go on.

Clara had been right to ask him to spare Me, to not destroy them all. He could have, if necessary. Killing the shade would have destroyed the refugees, and Me, and perhaps all of London. In his mind, it was worth it, because it was Clara. His, and he wasn't so petty as to not admit he was a selfish old man who clung to and claimed people like possessions, beautiful things to be preserved. But that wasn't who he was, who he wanted to be. He was the Doctor.

So he told his story, letting Clara know all the details of what had occurred. Letting her understand, praying she could see what he was doing. Because she had to know. She had to remember. Clara, of all people, had to understand. Understand that he was sorry. That he had failed her, and hurt her. That he'd plucked her from time and space at the moment of her death, and risked destroying it all because of her. Because he loved her. And that was why he'd done it. Why he'd wiped his memory, let her think he'd lost her.

He could never forget Clara, the temporal anomaly that had stepped into his timeline to save him, to counter the Great Intelligence. The Impossible Girl who had helped him save Gallifrey, and who'd stood by him even after losing the love of her life.

He wished he could tell her, that he could put it in more than stories, in metaphors. That she didn't have to read between the lines, and hear it in his voice, in his actions. That he could just be honest, be blunt, and tell her why this was happening. That he knew her, that he remembered her, and he'd always remember her and what she did for him. But he couldn't. Because Clara and him needed to part, to move on. For Clara to finally die, and move on. For him to travel, and be the Doctor.

So he did what he always did when it hurt; he lied. He told her to her face that he didn't know what she looked like, and he'd know her when he saw her. It had cut him straight through when she'd looked away, and tried not to cry because he didn't know her, didn't remember her. And just like him, Clara was lying. She knew exactly who he was, what had happened on Gallifrey. She'd seen everything, watched him stop at the diner. And she'd lied, just like he did. Lied about not knowing him, not knowing what happened. About not wishing that he knew who she was. About the fact that Me was waiting, just on the other side of the door, to carry her off to time and space on their way back to Gallifrey where Clara would finally die.

He'd given her the best hint he could, come as close to saying it as he dared when he'd talked about the diner. About it being in the wrong spot. But Clara had walked away, hurt and believing he didn't remember. She was leaving, leaving in pain. And much as that was the goal, to have her walk away, to have Me carry her off to Gallifrey to finally die, he couldn't let her leave hurt. Couldn't let her die without one piece of truth, one last act of kindness.

As Me started to pilot the Tardis away, started to fade from sight, the Doctor touched his sunglasses and let the telepathic circuit that plucked the image of the diner from his mind steal away one last detail. He let Clara make it to the monitor and look up, just before his last parting words touched across the screen. The first thing everyone always warned about travelling with him.

"Rule 1: The Doctor Lies."


End file.
